Transmigrated into Eroge as the Simp, but I Refuse This Fate

'But no.'

Damien shook the thought loose.

Not yet.

He'd made a bet. He'd drawn a line in the sand, looked her dead in the eye and promised results. If he went crawling for help now, tail between his legs, begging for notes?

That wasn't progress. That was groveling.

And he wasn't that man anymore.

Even if the idea made sense—Isabelle was reliable, organized, probably had every lecture digitized and timestamped to hell and back—it still felt wrong.

Too soon. Too shameless.

No, he'd show results first. Earn a sliver of leverage before making the ask. Not out of pride—but out of principle. Because this wasn't just about catching up.

It was about redefining who Damien Elford was.

And that—

That's when his eyes caught it.

And that—

That's when his eyes caught it.

Near the front corner of the room, just before the side doors that opened to the upper garden path, a cluster had gathered.

Voices. Laughter. The faint shine of high-grade perfume mixing with artificial ozone from the ventilation system. It was the unmistakable scent of power masked as social polish.

Victoria Langley.

Surrounded, as always.

Damien's eyes scanned the group lazily. Not with envy. Not even with disdain. Just… observation.

Celia Everwyn was among them, naturally. Blue hair draped like a banner down her back, posture regal even when she was leaning against a desk mid-conversation. Her laugh carried just enough to remind everyone that she didn't need to try to be the center of attention. She simply was.

And beside her—Victoria.

Blonde hair braided tight behind her shoulder, uniform crisp enough to cut through.

Damien leaned back in his chair, arm slung over the top of the seat, watching the scene with a quiet, bemused expression.

'Meticulous. Smart.'

And more than that?

She had the grades to back it. He'd skimmed the academic leaderboard once, just out of curiosity. Victoria was in the top five in the whole school.

That's why.

Damien's gaze lingered on her just a moment longer, the blur of her expression half-obscured behind some lesser noble fawning at her side. But even through the haze of petty social rituals, he could see it:

The posture.

The stillness.

The subtle way she nodded during conversation—not in agreement, but in control. Tracking everything. Measuring responses like data points.

'She definitely takes notes,' he thought. 'Good ones.'

He'd seen it before. Back in his old life, in that dull stretch of time before everything broke—top-ranked girls in class always had that same energy. Not the loud ones, not the try-hards. The efficient ones.

They didn't just listen.

They compiled.

Every lecture, every nuance, every throwaway line from a half-bored professor—they logged it. Cross-referenced it. Turned it into structured, highlight-coded material like they were training to run empires.

And Victoria Langley?

She was exactly that type.

Damien leaned back a little farther in his seat, one leg lazily crossed over the other, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips.

'So if I wanted a clean way in… if I needed anything…'

He didn't finish the thought.

Didn't need to.

Because he already knew.

He wouldn't ask now. Wouldn't come crawling. That wasn't the plan.

But the option existed.

And in his world, options were currency.

His eyes flicked back toward her once more—her laugh quieter than Celia's, more precise, but still magnetic enough to keep her little court hanging on.

'Top five, perfect posture, perfect notes…It would be quite bad to not make use of that, wouldn't it?'

His smirk sharpened just slightly.

*****

The Langley estate was bathed in golden dusk, the sprawling windows of Victoria's room catching the last warm rays of sun before it dipped beyond the hills. Her curtains swayed gently from the evening breeze, perfumed faintly by the white roses just beyond the balcony.

At her desk, books lay open, notes lined in meticulous columns—color-coded, annotated, as clean and polished as her image. The glow of her desk lamp illuminated a dozen pages, formulas on one side, parsed translations on the other.

It looked like she was studying.

But she wasn't.

Her pen hovered unmoving over a line she'd already read five times, her gaze unfocused, posture stiff despite the perfection of her setup.

Because her mind was elsewhere.

Her thoughts circled one name.

Damien.

Her fingers tapped against the edge of her notebook in irritation. The sheer audacity of him. First, the smug grins. Then the messages. And then that moment—whispered and cruel, when he leaned close and said it like a joke. "How would your simps react if they found out you had a secret boyfriend?"

And then that line.

Her eyes drifted toward the edge of her desk. Her phone was sitting there. Quiet. Tempting.

She picked it up.

Unlocked it.

Opened the message thread.

His name—Damien Elford—sat at the top like a curse she couldn't shake.

| Damien [22:27]

| You're adorable when you're angry.

| Should I send you a mirror so you can see yourself fuming in real time?

Victoria stared at the words.

Her lips twitched downward, a scowl threatening to rise—but didn't. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Even now. Even alone.

But her mind refused to let go of the question.

What does he want?

If he knows, if he really knows—why hasn't he done anything yet? He hasn't told anyone. He hasn't threatened her. He hasn't even demanded anything. No leverage. No ask.

He just watches.

Smiles.

Sends her cryptic texts like they're playing some twisted flirtation game.

Her eyes narrowed.

Is it fun for him? Toying with me like this? Or is he waiting for something?

She tapped her screen slowly, hesitating, staring at the last line.

There was no threat in his words.

No direct danger.

But something about the tone—that almost playful mockery—itched at her pride like a blade dulled just enough to draw discomfort instead of blood.

He's not acting like someone trying to blackmail me…

Maybe it wasn't about her at all.

That thought should've been comforting.

It wasn't.

Victoria's eyes drifted back to the phone screen, to that name pulsing like static at the top of the chat.

Damien Elford.

Maybe this was his play against Celia. After all, he'd fallen out with her first. Publicly. Bitterly. And Celia didn't exactly do forgiveness. If he wanted to humiliate her—or dismantle her from the edges—starting with one of her closest allies would make sense.

Logical. Strategic. Petty.

Just the kind of move someone like Damien would pull.

But...

Her brow furrowed slightly as she leaned back in her chair.

He didn't look at Celia anymore.

Not the way he used to. Not with longing. Not even with anger.

Just… disinterest. Disconnection. Like she was a former chapter, no longer relevant.

That's what unsettled her most.

If it were revenge—if this was some long-game about Celia—then there should be heat. Should be something personal in his gaze. But there wasn't.

There was only clarity.

And that made it worse.

He had no stake left in Celia… so what was this?

Why her?

She turned the screen back on, her own reflection flickering faintly in the black bar at the top.

It was making her insane—this ambiguity. This smug, confident, maddening lack of motive.

She needed something. Anything.

Even if it was just a hint of what he wanted out of her.

So she pulled up the message thread again.

Her pride screamed against it—told her this was a mistake, that she should make him come to her.

But the silence was louder now. The not-knowing more poisonous than the game itself.

Her thumbs moved before her restraint could catch them.

| Victoria [18:51]

| Why are you doing this?

She stared at the blinking cursor for a moment longer, then added—

| Victoria [18:51]

| If this is about Celia, then go deal with her.

| I have nothing to do with your grudge.

Sent.